The Phantasms Of Illegitimate Ancestors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My body feels like a guinea pig and it is not
Easy getting drunk again
Knowing that Alma is in the house of another man,
Even if it is crowded with her two children
Her parents, and her two sisters:
She is an incredible piece of cinema: and yes, I feel
Like I could go on forever in her celluloid,
Even more resilient than the cadmium artifice of all of
My major professors:
Now the leading man and the leading woman are kissing,
And perhaps Alma is making love with Nelson:
She told me today that I better ought to write about something
Else,
But there is nothing else right now: I have held her vision
In my heart like a merry-go-round of water colored children,
And my words have failed her in every way possible:
And all of Mexico is amber and real, and it just goes on through
All different sorts of lawlessness and murder:
Alma has her man’s initial tattooed on the web of her hand,
But today she wore my ring,
And I want to promise her so much: I want to become for her that
Flood of light over a newly born butterfly’s wings:
Like the mindless exploration of feral angels who don’t know
How to care for anything but the feeling and unreality of our motions:
Alma,
I want to crawl up to you in the morning and pretend your body
Is an impossible monument for my body and senses to attempt surmounting:
I want my lips and fingers to become stranded in your elegant
Precipices everyday,
And I want to holiday in your banditries forever; for if I should come down
Again, it will be a graveyard;
And I want to kiss your tongue, for otherwise the mist will reclaim our
Senses and all that will be possible is an endless nursery
For the phantasms of illegitimate ancestors.